The Conqueror Worm
by Xanthos Samurai
Summary: A fic about Voldo bringing what he believes to be the Soul Edge to the Money Pit. Written to "The Conqueror Worm" by Edgar Allen Poe. PG-13 for some gory imagery. One shot. -format edited & reposted-


The Conqueror Worm  
  
Author: Xanthos Samurai  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Warnings: Again, gory description and general Voldo creepiness. And perhaps hints of slash, depending on how you want to look at it.  
  
Disclaimer: As much as I would love to own Voldo, Namco (and Vercci) do, so suing me won't do you one lick o' good. I don't own any other part of SCII either... Yet. "The Conqueror Worm" is also owned by Edgar Allen Poe. Trust me, my poetry isn't anywhere NEAR his league. ;;  
  
Feedback: Please!  
  
Notes: My other Voldo-centric fic, Post Mortem got such a nice response that I decided to continue with my plans and write this one! This is inspired by the beautiful creepiness that IS Voldo and also the beautiful creepiness that IS Edgar Allen Poe. This poem struck me one night as I was playing with Voldo and I decided that I just had to write a fic with it. I hope you think that it fits as well!  
  
Anyways, this fic is about Voldo coming back to the Money Pit after searching for the Soul Edge. I sort of took some liberties in describing the Money Pit... I know that it's an actual stage in the game, but to make this work I had to change it around. If anybody has a problem with that, then... Well... It's your problem. ;; I'd also like to thank everyone who read and reviewed my first fic – this is for y'all.  
  
LO! 't is a gala night  
Within the lonesome latter years.  
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight  
In veils, and drowned in tears,  
Sit in a theatre to see  
A play of hopes and fears,  
While the orchestra breathes fitfully  
The music of the spheres.  
  
The full moon shone like a cratered, craggy, cackling mask leering down upon the lone traveler. Feet trod softly upon the ground and left no mark to indicate that he had passed that way. No man could ever trace him, no hound could ever track him and no god would ever seek him. He was but a shadow, his sins and appearance vanishing beneath a black shroud of mystery and death.  
Beneath the eyes of naught but the stars and the empty eyes of the moon he ran, clutching to his breast a great treasure. For Master, every nerve within him sang. The treasure for Master... It was what Master had sought, the thing that He had craved and lusted after... and so Voldo had lusted after it as well. For Master he had run many nights under the moon, and for Master he brought back the treasure.  
  
Mimes, in the form of God on high,  
Mutter and mumble low,  
And hither and thither fly;  
Mere puppets they, who come and go  
At bidding of vast formless things  
That shift the scenery to and fro,  
Flapping from out their condor wings  
Invisible Woe.  
  
The entrance to the chasm known as the Money Pit was rigged with countless ingenious traps, all of them designed to brutally kill any and all who dared to venture within to search for the merchant's unimaginable wealth. Vercci had desgined quite a few of them himself, but he had also allowed Voldo to add in his own small touches. Even though the gift sight had long since abandoned Voldo, he knew the traps as well as he knew himself – they felt as familiar to him as did the katars upon his hands. He twisted his supple body into positions that should have made a mere mortal scream in agony and easily slid around the traps as only he could. A few had been tripped and corpses littered the area. Voldo easily re-set the traps and moved the bodies in order to dispose of them later. Right now, the only thing that he thought about was brining his prize to Master.  
  
For years since Vercci's death, Voldo had ventured out of the Money Pit in order to find the precious Soul Edge. It had begun one day when he had chased away a particularly skillful intruder. As he had been tending to his wounds after, he had heard Master's voice. "Find her, Voldo." Master had spoken. "Find her and bring me her sword." Voldo had not even been stunned by suddenly hearing Master's voice. All that had mattered was that Master had spoken, and more importantly, that Master had given an order. Voldo could not refuse. So he strapped his armor on over his still-bloody wounds and went out after the strange woman.  
  
That motley drama—oh, be sure  
It shall not be forgot!  
With its Phantom chased for evermore  
By a crowd that seize it not,  
Through a circle that ever returneth in  
To the self-same spot;  
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,  
And Horror the soul of the plot.  
  
For days that turned into weeks and weeks that turned into months, he had tracked the sword that Master had told him to retrieve. Periodically, he had returned to the Money Pit in order to check the traps and ensure that Master's treasure had not been disturbed. No matter how far he traveled in search of the woman and the weapon, he always returned back to the Money Pit in hopes of hearing Master's voice yet again. But Vercci's voice never again spoke and Voldo's obsession with finding the sword in order to please Master was deepened. At long last, he came upon the woman asleep – his perfect opportunity. Utilizing his immense powers of stealth, he crept in and took it without waking the woman or anyone else. He stole back as quickly as he could, back to the Money Pit. But in his quest, Voldo had killed many men and made many enemies. People pursued him with vengeance in their minds and fury in their steel, but none ever came close to ensnaring the devious mute. Battles were more frequent and tiring, although Voldo would never allow himself to be defeated.  
But see, amid the mimic rout  
  
A crawling shape intrude!  
  
A blood-red thing that writhes from out  
  
The scenic solitude!  
  
It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs  
  
The mimes become its food,  
  
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs  
  
In human gore imbued.  
The last of the traps nimbly avoided, Voldo slid into the main chamber of the Money Pit. Something was amiss, he could tell even without the use of his eyesight. The air was too thick, too heavy and he could hear a quiet, steady rush, similar to the pattern of breath. A growl vibrated in his throat as he slithered forward. His uniform (in Vercci's colors of crimson and dark blue) was ripped and torn, so that sea water splashed freely about his bare legs. A moan escaped Voldo's concealed lips as he sprang through the water, making his way through the flooded treasure chamber until he came to Vercci's own throne. He crawled into the stone seat and curled there, still clutching the sword in his battered fingers. Master was going to be angry – he had allowed the chamber to be flooded.  
A noise brought Voldo from his shamed reverie – a peculiar thrashing and flailing sound in the water.  
"Help!" A voice cried. "I know you're there! Help me – I'm drowning!"  
Voldo could feel his muscles tense as a loud hiss escaped his throat. An intruder... An intruder had violated the sanctity of Master's chamber! For that, they must die! With a feral cry, the blind man sprang from the throne and through the water to the splashing sounds. A would-be thief was floundering in the deep water, nearly drowning because of the maiming injuries that he had sustained while making his way to the chamber. Voldo let forth an enraged roar and jumped for the drowning man. The man screamed and tried to get away from the seemingly-demonic being, but it was to no avail. Two swipes and it was all over for the wretched thief, but Voldo was nowhere near done. His rage unfulfilled, he sliced and hacked until the seawater churned around the bloody, disfigured corpse and ran red. He threw the body upon the beach of coins and crawled up himself, his breath ragged from fury.  
Out- out are the lights- out all!  
  
And, over each quivering form,  
  
The curtain, a funeral pall,  
  
Comes down with the rush of a storm,  
  
While the angels, all pallid and wan,  
  
Uprising, unveiling, affirm  
  
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"  
  
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.  
A few minutes later, the corpse was still twitching and writhing upon Vercci's treasure in its last throes of life. Red water lapped gently up around it, nearly caressing the intestines and organs that lay spilled from the bloated belly. An arm dangled from the torso, nearly severed by one of the ingenious traps that should have killed him. His face was mutilated beyond recognition and his hands were gone entirely – the guardian's own personal method of disfiguring the corpses who would have taken Master's treasure in those filthy hands. Voldo pulled himself up and walked slowly to the throne where the mysterious sword still lay. He lifted it in his hands and walked to the highest point of the chamber – the statue of Master himself, still dry and preserved from the flood's rising waters. He placed the weapon at Vercci's stone feet with a deep bow and awaited for the words to come – words of praise or punishment, words that caressed or words that chastised. As long as Master, beloved, long-dead Master spoke, Voldo would accept any consequences.  
But Vercci did not speak. He said nothing – only stared beyond Voldo with great stone eyes. Voldo began to tremble and dropped to his knees, hands stretched in front of him in submission. He allowed himself a low moan. He had failed Master... He had failed Master...  
  
But he would not do so again.  
  
Fin. 


End file.
